The Mirror
by The Teenage Angst Brigade
Summary: *OOTP SPOILERS!* A short ficlet from Harry's point of view, on mirrors and things that will never be reflected in them again.


**THE MIRROR**  
_Disclaimer:_ Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. No infringement intended. The _Sandman_ quote, from the book _Fables and Reflections _(I think), is the property of Neil Gaiman. See if you can spot it, if you're a _Sandman_ geek like I am. It's not that hard to find. Again, no infringement intended.  
_Author's Note:_ This is an Order of the Phoenix ficlet. A short one. EXPECT SPOILERS. From Harry's perspective. Not very well written, mind you, but I enjoyed it. Somewhat. Anyway, it's only bad because I wrote it in about five minutes. :) Or maybe I just really suck, period. Also, because I am a stupid prat, I forgot to put in an important part into this thing, which I have edited. GOD, I loathe being wrong and I LOATHE inconsistency. This is SCHOOL'S fault. :) Anyway, it's been fixed. If you noticed, having read it before I revised a couple of sentences, well, it's what it's all cracked up to be now. :) I've checked for further mistakes and I haven't spotted any MORE (thankyouGod). Sorry. 

_Use it if you need me, all right?_

_I need you, Sirius,_ Harry thought, once again lying in the flowerbed outside Number Four, Privet Drive. This was where it had all begun. _I need you. But you're gone._ He glanced into the small, square mirror. It was cracked and glued back together in countless places. He'd destroyed it once, in frustration, and painstakingly pieced it back together with regret and no magic. It was filthy, and dirt clung onto the reflective surface, wedged within the breaks. He scrubbed the grime off with a corner of his shirt and flipped the small object over to read his godfather's handwriting.

Words that would never be written by that hand again. Reassuring words, letters, in his distinctly Sirius-like penmanship. No more secret meetings in Hogsmeade. No one to live in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. No more Blacks. No more talks about the good old Hogwarts days when the Marauders had been at large. Now, there were only two Marauders left. And Harry had lost the other two to the same person. The only two fathers he'd ever had. To Voldemort.

_It didn't have to be this way. It didn't have to be me. It doesn't have to be me _all--the--time.

But it _was_ him. And there were things that could just not be changed. _After fifteen years, there are things will never be changed. In a single second, I can change everything. Whether I know it or not._

_I didn't want this. I didn't want this responsibility. I don't want it. Like I've ever had a choice._

There were so many ways destiny could turn. So many paths. But once you step on that path, whether you like it or not, there's just no turning back. Destiny is blind.

_It's always going to be like this. I'm always going to lose everything, and it's always going to be my fault._

There would be no writing of surreptitious letters to "Snuffles" any longer. There _was_ no more Snuffles. There would be no godfather; the closest person to a parent he'd ever had was _gone. _No friendly confidant to run to when he had problems. No Sirius to give him sound, reasonable advice. Especially now that he needed it.

_Me again. I'm being selfish again. Harry Potter, the Hero, the Boy Who Lived. Nobody ever thinks about the people who died anymore. Why is everyone so happy? Don't they know what's _happened?

_Sirius died for me._

_Use it if you need me, all right?_

He wouldn't be at the other end of that mirror.

_They used these mirrors once. Dad. Sirius. And they're both gone._

It hurt so badly. But there was no changing what had already come to pass.

Still, nothing would ease the pain. He wept as the mirror fell onto the ground. It was broken and mended, and like all things broken and fixed, they were stronger the second time around.

_Use it if you need me, all right?_

_I need you. I need you, Sirius._

The mirror was whole. Cracked, but whole. Several small reflections of himself gleamed on the reconnected pieces. Maybe the glass was whole, maybe it was stronger now, but there would always be something missing.

Always.


End file.
